Coward
by pharo
Summary: The reasons are not always clear.


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Coward

Author: Pharo

Disclaimer: 'Alias' belongs to ABC, Bad Robot, and JJ Abrams.

Summary: The reasons are not always clear.

Spoilers: "The Getaway".

Feedback: pharo@newyork.com

Author's Notes: Major thanks to the wonderful **Aire** for all her help.

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'a side-stepping has come to be a brilliant dance where nobody leads at all…' –Dashboard Confessional, _'This Brilliant Dance'_

She's a coward when it comes to him. She knows this. She accepts it as one of those undeniable facts of life – something that she can't change. 

She can't look him in the eyes without grinning – a half-grin that causes him to raise an eyebrow. She sees the wheels in his head spinning every single time, trying to think of what she's planning, why she's smiling, what she has up her sleeve. It's just like him to always think five minutes ahead instead of letting himself live in the present.

She wants to tell him that there is no hidden agenda, no elaborate scheme to break him, but she knows he would never believe her. He'd never believe the real reason. The grin is forced – something to keep the tears in. If she's smiling, she can't cry. She can be strong. 

The sound of ruffling papers snaps her out of her reverie in time to hear him say something about customs and Peru. She nods and watches him gather stack a couple of files on top of each other.

He starts to make his way out of the cell and she fumbles for something to say. String a couple of words together – anything so he'll turn around and stay for a second longer.

"When I was your wife…"

His footsteps stop and he turns back to look at her. She can feel his heart breaking and she mentally slaps herself for bringing her betrayal up. She wants to look away because she can't stand the pain in his eyes, but she convinces herself to be strong. To offer some sort of help now that she's mentioned the past.

"I would meet my case officer in his hotel room. I suggest you find out where Briault stayed and pull the hotel security footage."

He attempts a thankful smile, but fails miserably. He settles for a nod and then he's gone.

She knows she could've said something less weighty, less painful – something like, "Thanks for lunch" – but they can't seem to function that way. Their last words are always bitter and painful and leave behind the sour taste of betrayal.

One step forward, three steps backwards.

That's the only way she can have it with him – that's the only way she knows to deal with what they are now – a shell of the people they used to be. 

It's easier to have him hate her because of her betrayal. There's a tangible reason in that scenario. A good and bad, a cause and effect. She can handle the glares then. She can continue to break his heart and know that it is only logical for him to hate her. 

So she continues to hurt him. She mentions the past and throws daggers through his heart so that he can remember to hate her; he can remind himself that she can't be trusted and things can stay the way they are now. 

She knows how to deal with things the way they are now.

Because she's a coward when it comes to him. She's afraid of the day when he'll forgive her betrayal, realize that she had to do it, but hate her anyway. She's afraid that he won't be able to love her because of who she is, not because of what she stands for in his mind or because she hurt him, but for the simple fact that she's not good enough. 

It scares her to the point of shivers to think of him hating her because she can't be loved, because there is something in her soul that he can't embrace. It's better the way it is now. It leaves her room to believe that if the circumstances were different, he would still love her and things would still be like the way they were before. 

They'd still be living in the warm, little house in the middle of a Pasadena block. She loved that time, that place, that house. It was full of memories and to this day, she thinks that she can recall every little thing that happened. 

He re-painted the house every year in the summer, a couple of weeks before the annual Fourth of July neighborhood block party. The Patersons made the burgers for the party, the Johnsons brought the drinks, the Lindens provided the entertainment, and she always made salad with fresh vegetables from her garden. 

He always wore the red, white, and blue striped shirt for the party. He talked football with the other dads and would look at her every so often and give a little wave that made her beam because they were so perfect together. 

She remembers sitting at the breakfast bar with Sydney on Saturday mornings while he made blueberry pancakes. It was such a big deal at that time. He'd wear an apron and a chef's hat and anyone outside their little circle would think he was the master cook in the house. He'd bow when he brought the stacks over and Sydney would giggle at how silly her father was.

"What's so funny?" he would ask in a French accent.

"Jack, you could make doing our taxes into comedy hour," she would say with a grin.

And oh, how she loved him then. She loved him more than she would let herself admit because a part of her always knew that she couldn't get too attached, but by then it was too late. She had to settle for denying that she had grown quite fond of that life. Every time she went to meet her case officer, she would spend the minutes in the elevator telling herself that it was a charade and she was just playing her part. And then she would spend the ride back trying to hold in the tears because she knew that she had too much invested into it to claim that it was all just a lie – a job from the KGB.

See, she had always been a coward when it came to him.

Every time he asked her if she was ok, she had wanted to tell him that she wasn't. Tell him that none of it was ok because everything they were building their life on was a lie – her lie – but she was afraid because it was such a good life. She was afraid of what he would say, but more importantly she was afraid of seeing the love in his eyes quickly disappear in light of the truth.

She never trusted him to love her after finding out the whole truth. She loved the life they had too much to tell him the truth.

"I've got the customs papers," he says, snapping her out of the fuzzy world of memories.

She looks up to find him standing in front of her, holding up a stack of papers in his right hand. She shakes her head and tries to will her hand to stop shaking as she tucks her hair behind her ear. She reminds herself that she can't lose it now – she can't just break down like this.

She motions for him to sit down.

"Are you ok?" he asks, wearing a worried expression as he takes a seat in the chair opposite from her. For a second, it seems as if things haven't changed, as if she's still 'Laura' and living in that world, but she's not naïve enough to believe it for long.

She nods at him, but she knows he doesn't believe her. Even after all these mantras in her head, she knows it's transparent that she isn't fine. Her hands won't stop shaking and she can't shake the tears.

"What's wrong?" he asks and for a second, she's afraid it has happened. 

He's stopped thinking about the betrayal long enough to drop the formalities. 

"I haven't had fortune cookies in the longest time," she says, holding up an empty packet.

"I remember how much you loved reading those stupid slips of paper."

"They were entertaining," she says, "and as I recall, you were quite fond of them yourself."

"Of the cookie. I liked the cookie," he clarifies. "You liked the fortune."

"They were nice."

"They were unrealistic," he says, adding, "because the future is never that good."

"Well, did you expect them to tell you the truth? 'Your wife will betray you.'"

She knows that they are once again back to where they started. 

"No. I expected you to tell me the truth," he says, his voice equally cold.

They were playing the game again – the stupid contest that has no winners. She hurts him. He hurts her. They both hurt each other and in the end, they have a few more scars to hide. 

Sometimes she thinks that maybe she needs him to hurt her – she needs to hurt him – to remind her that it's all real and not some warped dream. So she seizes any opportunity to bring it up. She deals the cards and puts on her poker face and he has no choice but to sit in. She can end it at any time, but she won't.

She'll always be a coward when it comes to him.


End file.
